


Won't Say You're Sorry

by TwinKats



Series: Don't Write Me A Postscript [2]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Drama Llama, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Family Drama, Gen, M/M, No Hurt all Comfort, Other, Side Story, Tucker-centric, don't write me a postscript - tucker family version, fantasy military, mombarrassment, project freelancer is that one thing no one wants to touch, scifi military, taking haloverse and breaking it, technically, the tucker story to the church story, tucker's family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-02-18 00:45:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13088889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwinKats/pseuds/TwinKats
Summary: This had to be the present day version of dropping your kid off on the steps of high school, calling them 'buga-boo-boo,' and giving kissey faces in front of their peers much to their eternal embarrassment--expect the stricter, navy version, a giant space ship, a planet, and none of your kids' actual peers.God if Tucker didn't miss his mom, though, embarrassment aside.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I had a thought (although don't ask me what that thought was _now_ ) and decided the best way to get to where I wanted said thought to be a reality was to include Tucker's side of things during Don't Write Me A Postscript. So enjoy the side-story that will go on until the two halves merge into one being.
> 
> Now I'm off to try and actually get back to sleep since I took the three days to get this little piece off the ground.

It started not with a whimper, but a bang. Tucker stared up at the sky, pale and ashen and sick to his stomach, and watched the pelican explode with his son on it. He’d only just gotten used to the fact that _shit_ he was a father—and sure his kid was born out of a strange mix of alien impregnation and rape—but he was a _father_. No matter who much he’d joked with his sisters and his dad back home about the number of bastards he’d probably sired, he never actually had a kid before. He’d never been _responsible_ for one before.

Now—now Church’s fucking _girlfriend_ took his kid—took his kid and then—then Sarge placed _Andy_ —fucking _Andy_ —on that same ship and just—Tucker felt sick to his stomach. He felt weak in the knees. He didn’t know what to do or what he needed to do. A part of him wanted to just burst the sword into being and stab it straight through Sarge’s fucking _face_.

_(his lower back throbbed)_

_(he refused to think on **that** )_

With a snarl Tucker pushed past Caboose, pushed away from the moved grip—almost shoved Sister—and stormed back into the base without a word. He could hear Church whisper, “Tex?” and all Tucker wanted to do was _scream._

_It wasn’t just your damn girlfriend, Church!_

_What about my kid?!_

**_What about my kid?!_ **

Tucker’s footsteps grew faster until he practically ran through the base, ripped his helmet off, and bent over double in front of the toilet. He heaved; he collapsed to his knees and, alone, let the tears fall as he _heaved_. After years in this godforsaken army not once had Tucker felt like this. He felt carved out and desperate and his chest _hurt_. Tucker heaved and threw up and cried messily in the bathroom for what felt like hours.

When he cleaned himself up, and for the days after, everyone moved as if they were on auto-pilot. Tucker didn’t speak to Church, and Church didn’t speak to Tucker. That, in the end, was just the way Tucker wanted things to go. It was all Church’s fault, anyway. Church’s fucking weird mess with Freelancer and his girlfriend and all the crazy, insane bullshit they were forced to go through. All for _goddamn_ Church.

Tucker _hated_ that fucking asshole. The bastard didn’t even have the gall to say sorry.

* * *

 

When the pelican ship arrived to pick him up and take him off to his new assignment, Tucker left in silence. Normally he would’ve had his usual banter with Church, a while means of communication they’d come to create between themselves and their time at Blood Gulch, but now? With how infuriated Tucker was, with how dismissive Church was—with Sister and the bullshit and _their goddamn relationship_ like Tex hadn’t even been a thing to Church; like the mess hadn’t even _happened_ —Tucker kept quiet. Even though Church stood and watched him off, Tucker kept quiet.

The asshole didn’t _deserve_ his words. Not anymore.

The doors to the pelican finally slid shut, and Tucker could feel the engines rumble beneath him as they took to the air; _finally_ he relaxed. One hand slipped down to the hilt of his Sangheili blade—

_(mine)_

—and then he breathed out explosively when yet again he realized that it was gone.

Tucker’s lower back twinged and he closed his eyes and slapped his head back against the wall of the pelican. One of the soldiers manning the pelican glanced over to him and Tucker noted that she wasn’t in power armor. He thought for a minute to crack a joke, throw a pickup line, but ever since Junior had been kidnapped and _killed_ he just didn’t have the heart in it.

“Sir?” Tucker tilted his head toward the soldier to let her know he was listening, even as he mouthed ‘sir’ in surprise. “I have been instructed to inform you that the Captain orders for helmets at the very least to be off outside of live fire situations.”

From behind his helmet Tucker frowned. “That sounds like I’ll be ship bound,” he said slowly.

The soldier nodded her head. “Yes sir.” She had pretty eyes, Tucker noted. His back twinged again and he sighed explosively.

“ _Fine_.”

The helmet released with a hiss and the subtle lick against his neck from the neural implants faded back into obscurity. Tucker shook his head to rid his ears of the ringing and then pulled off the armor over his hands to properly dig his fingers into the back of his neck just above where the implants ended.

“Does your Captain want me to completely undress too?” Tucker drawled. His lips quirked up as he spoke, especially when he caught the way her cheeks reddened slightly. _Damn_ he had to be looking good for that, not that Tucker doubted for a moment.

“No sir,” the soldier said, evenly.

 _Guess I’ll just have to try harder to ruffle her feathers then,_ Tucker mused. He tugged off his other glove and massaged around his neck, careful to brush at the edge of circuitry and skin. While it hadn’t been _too_ long since he’d been out of armor—just a mere hour or so, in fact—Tucker wasn’t above playing up how _pleasurable_ the action felt. He let out soft, faint groans because why the fuck not? He might not have the heart for flirting, maybe even hooking up, but damn that blush didn’t signal some primal part of his mind.

 _Bow chicka bow wow,_ Tucker thought. His lower back _burned_ and he had to pull his hands away with a faint grimace. He shook his head, tried to get rid of the thoughts that bounced around in it, and instead tugged his gloves back on. The helmet Tucker settled into the seat next to himself and glanced over at the beautiful, pale-eyed creature who, dare Tucker say it—nay, think it?—looked disappointed. He shuffled, let his legs slip open as he settled his arms across the seat and watched her with ‘bedroom’ eyes. He watched how her eyes dipped down toward his codpiece and smirked.

 _Ah, there we go_.

“Sir,” she said, slowly. “I feel I must warn you.”

“What about?” Tucker drawled casually.

“Well…” the soldier started slowly, and she drew out the word enough that Tucker felt his grin grow from ear to ear and a thrill of something for a moment forgotten raced through his veins.

“Well…” Tucker drawled back out, and then opened his mouth to shoot of something more when the sudden rock of turbulence caught him completely off balance. He let out a yelp as he practically flew from his seat onto the metal of the deck with a shrieked, “ _Fuck!_ ” to the laughter of the lone soldier.

“Well we’re about to hit atmo,” she twittered, and Tucker groaned.

“ _So. Not. Cool_ ,” he said, face still pressed down into the metal of the ship. He pushed himself up and pinched at his nose. “Is it broken?” he whined, and she shook her head.

“Buckle up, buttercup,” the soldier laughed. “It won’t be long before we’re docked aboard the _Viper’s Nest_.”

Tucker flopped back into his seat and frowned; he winced when his nose throbbed and glanced at his gloved fingers distastefully in search of any bleeding, before he looked back over at the soldier. “The UNSC _Viper’s Nest?_ ” Tucker asked. He let his hands fall into his lap. “Flagship for the tenth fleet?” The resulting grin from the soldier placed lead in his stomach. “Sonnovabitch.”

_(he knew this had been too good to be true)_

* * *

 

Ship Captain Arlene Volt looked over the readouts aboard the bridge stiff backed and lips pressed together. She waited for the word to come through that their package had safely made it aboard, gaze focused steadily on the rotating planet they settled into orbit around. She tried rather hard not to think about the person at her back, the intimidating presence and sole reason why the _Viper’s Nest_ even was at this backwater outpost of a planet.

“Captain, dropship is finishing up docking procedures,” one of the technicians chimed up, and Arlene relaxed minutely. She glanced over at the Vice Admiral.

“And our package?” Arlene questioned.

“Safely onboard,” the technician said.

The Vice Admiral let out a huff, the only sign she’d even heard the technician, as she turned sharply on heel.

“Ma’am?” Arlene quickly fell into step with the older woman.

“Send word to route Lavernius to my office,” the Vice Admiral said stiffly. “Then, once docking procedures are finished, continue with our headway.”

“Ma’am,” Arlene nodded and branched away. She shared a quick glance with the ships AI who watched the Vice Admiral leave the bridge, before Arlene made a quick gesture for him to relay the Vice Admiral’s commands.

“Frightening woman,” Deckard said carefully as he manipulated the ships systems.

“At least you rarely talk to her,” Arlene said tiredly. “I don’t even want to fathom what a Project Freelancer Private did to get on _her_ list.”

“I’d imagine being born would suffice plenty,” Deckard mused, and then vanished just in time for Arlene’s hand to swipe through his hologram. “Really, Captain Volt? I am nothing more than a hologram projection, you know.”

Arlene grumbled. “Makes me fucking feel better.” Arlene settled in front of the large map that took up a good portion of the bridge. “This is our last unexpected stop, right?”

“Correct,” Deckard reappeared in front of the map. “After this we should have a fairly straightforward trip back into Earth’s space.”

“We won’t need to anticipate some sort of reaction from Project Freelancer for poaching one of their military fodder?” Arlene questioned. Deckard shrugged his shoulders.

“It seemed rather like Project Freelancer was all too happy to hand over Private Tucker,” Deckard said. “No projected issues on that front.”

“That…is not a ringing endorsement,” Arlene sighed. “Suddenly I’m far more worried about this Private then I was five minutes ago.”

Deckard flickered out of view and reappeared in view a second later. “I ran through the records. Private Tucker is a flirt, but relatively harmless. Surprisingly bright. With these tests scores he could’ve easily received an officer rank within the UNSC Navy, maybe even fast-tracked to FLEETCOM. Hm, wonder why he got relegated to Freelancer military?”

“Who knows?” Arlene shrugged. “Maybe he has a cognitive defect.”

“That would be in his medical file,” Deckard pointed out.

“Whatever the reason,” Arlene turned around and stared back out into space with a frown, “this Private is nothing but trouble. That’s the _only_ thing that makes sense.”

Deckard flickered away. “So you say, Captain.” A soft alarm rang throughout the entire ship for all of a hot second, followed by the announcement that the ship would be entering slip space within five minutes.

Arlene pressed her lips together. “ _Definitely_ trouble,” she grumbled. Arlene did not look forward to Private Lavernius Tucker being aboard the _Viper’s Nest_ —not one bit.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tucker does not want to talk about his kid, not really, and definitely not to his mom. Doc just has to ruin everything, doesn't he?

Tucker kept himself rather stiff when Captain Arlene came to pick him up from the hanger bay herself and provide an escort to the Vice Admiral’s quarters. When she finally showed up he gave her a nod over a salute after a moments determination. Captain Arlene glanced him over, rolled her eyes, and gestured for him to follow. Throughout the path from the hanger to the Vice Admiral’s quarters Tucker kept his hands at his sides, helmet hung off his hip where normally his blade hilt would rest.

“I see you got the message about helmets,” Captain Arlene said dryly.

“Loud and clear,” Tucker scowled. His nose _still_ hurt, and his pride still stung from the laugh at his expense.

“I trust you won’t cause any problems while aboard the _Viper’s Nest?_ ” Captain Arlene asked.

“No, ma’am,” Tucker clenched his hands into fists at his side.

“Good,” Captain Arlene replied, then paused when they came upon the elevator shaft that moved between ship levels. “I’m going to be perfectly frank, Private Tucker.” Arlene stepped inside, turned around, and waited for Tucker to follow. “I do not like you. I do not like that you are a part of Project Freelancer, even if its just the grunt work and not an Agent. I do not like your attitude. I do not like your service record, and I _definitely_ do not like you aboard my ship.”

 _Your ship?_ Tucker wanted to laugh; instead he kept his words to himself with a short, “Noted,” as the elevator doors slid shut. The lift jolted and began to move. Tucker side-eyed Arlene. “Just as a bit of advice though?” Tucker said dryly. “Stick to armor colors and don’t mention Freelancer if you end up picking up any more of us ‘grunt workers’ ‘kay?” Tucker watched how Arlene’s face twisted in confusion—her brow furrowed and her mouth opened to ask, but then she seemed to think better of it—and shook his head.

Honestly the UNSC really had no idea what a complete and utter mess Project Freelancer really was, Tucker mused. While he’d never participated within the main project itself, instead as a member of the Simulation Armies, just his tenure on ‘Blue Team’ and even Blood Gulch told him enough about Project Freelancer. Tucker shuddered.

The flag cultists—zealots—were a prime example; honestly Tucker truly hoped that no one got it in their heads for a revenge kick. Revealing the ‘lies’ of the colored armies to the lot was the _worst idea_ Tucker could conceive. It’d be a massacre—and Tucker doubted it’d stop at Freelancer.

The lift shuddered to a stop. Arlene took a step forward and finally said, “I will…take your words under consideration.” The doors slid open and she led the way out of the elevator and back down the hall.

The rest of the walk to the Vice Admiral’s office was spent mostly in silence. Tucker tried to puzzle out _why here, why now_ , because honestly this was a mess and a half waiting to happen. The additional restrained hostility out of Captain Arlene also threw Tucker for a loop. For a moment he wondered if she had some sort of crush on the Vice Admiral—his mind tumbled, as it always did when he had such thoughts—and Tucker withheld a gag.

 _Ew_. No, he was not going there. His nightmare fuel was already full enough, thank you very much. Tucker pulled a face and shook his head—and then frowned contemplatively. _Although…_ Tucker slammed the thoughts down and stopped. He tried to think of something else— _anything else_ —

“Are you okay?” Arlene questioned and Tucker jerked his head up. “You look sick.”

 _Ah, distraction!_ Tucker shot her a winning smile. “Sorry, sorry. I just…thought of my parents having sex randomly.”

Arlene jerked back, her face pinched, and sharply she turned on heel. “Why am I not surprised?” she said, and her tone laced with disgust.

 _Yeah, lady, you and me **both**_ , Tucker thought with a grimace. _Parent’s having sex? Really? Ugh._ He straightened his spine and followed her with a sigh. They couldn’t reach the Vice Admiral’s quarters quickly enough.

* * *

 

Vice Admiral Christina Odan sighed as she stared at the report and request from HIGHCOM. The first was a rather ridiculous report from some asinine ‘field medic’ associated with Project Freelancer. This ‘DuFresne’ set Christina’s teeth on edge—something about him just wasn’t _right_ —and the ridiculous tale he weaved in the report honestly made her sick to her stomach. DuFresne spoke of some sort of _hybrid_ child, and while Christina resolved herself to containing her disdain for the Sangheili people now that the Great War finally ended and peace talks were for once on the table, this—this _nonsense_ was irritating.

The worst part was that DuFresne claimed this ‘hybrid’ to be named _Lavernius Tucker_. That exclamation had brought far more attention her way than Christina ever anticipated, and the mere _idea_ that Lavernius may have gone along with this bullshit scheme drove Christina batty. It didn’t help that she had Marius trying to get a hold of her, demanding to know why his company was under such heavy scrutiny all of a sudden. No, between HIGHCOM demanding Lavernius’ presence, questioning Christina’s every move, and dipping their fingers into _Lascivious Aromatics_ , Christina was not in a good mood.

Thankfully a rather easy way to clean up this _mess_ and get to the bottom of the prank—what else could it be? Christina knew for a fact Lavernius was no hybrid—quickly landed in her lap. A short discussion between the Director of Project Freelancer, HIGHCOM, ONI, and Lord Hood settled Lavernius’ relocation orders firmly into her hands. HIGHCOM then demanded she bring Lavernius straight to Earth, and well hopefully Christina could work out a way to mitigate disaster with Lavernius on route instead of leaving the boy to flounder like he rightfully deserved.

Honestly the number of times Christina had to bail Lavernius out of trouble were innumerous. The boy was more troublesome than his older sisters! Christina set the report off to the side and leaned back in her chair in thought. She would get to the bottom of this mess; Lavernius would explain himself to her.

The door to her office slipped open and Christina raised her head and stood to her feet. She eyed the armor, the helmet attached to the hip, and the wiry hair pulled back from his face. It ended in a ball of puff at the back of his head. Not quite military standard anymore, Christina noted, but in the dark eyes and dark skin—small light freckles and a little more worn than Christina last saw—Lavernius stared back at her.

“Mom,” Lavernius said dryly. “Did you really have to come and get me _personally?_ ”

Christina’s gaze slipped from Lavernius to Captain Arlene who hastily masked her surprise at Lavernius’ dry response.

“Captain, return to your post,” Christina said sharply. “I have everything well in hand here.” Arlene stiffened, saluted, and quickly turned and left. Christina glanced to Lavernius. “Sit down, Lavernius.”

“So it’s going to be like that, then?” Lavernius murmured, shook his head, and snapped into a salute. “Ma’am.” He stepped into the room, the door slipped shut behind him, and stood across from Christina’s desk. “I’d prefer to stand if it’s all the same to you, ma’am.”

Christina sighed. “Lavernius…” Lavernius gave her a grin and Christina gave in completely. “Damn it, get over here.”

With a laugh Lavernius vaulted the desk and landed in front of Christina. He wrapped his arms around her, and she wrapped her own back around him. Lavernius leaned his head best he could from the armor against her chest and just basked in her presence.

“I missed you, mom,” he mumbled.

“I wish you would’ve joined the Navy,” Christina said tiredly and pulled away. Lavernius pulled a face. “Honestly,” Christina shook her head. “I wish that this was all just pleasant, but there is a reason I came to retrieve you from Rhodam.”

Lavernius frowned. “What’s wrong?”

Christina moved around Lavernius and picked up the report from her desk. “HIGHCOM has demanded your presence back on Earth.”

Lavernius’ eyes widened. “Whoa, wait, _what?_ Why?”

“About six months ago a report was filed from a Field Medic in regards to one Lavernius Tucker,” Christina said with forced calm. She watched as Lavernius seemed to pale. “Can you tell me what Medic DuFresne reported, Lavernius?”

Lavernius placed a hand over his face and hissed out, “Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, _shit._ ”

“Lavernius?” Christina murmured, confused. She pulled his hand away and was surprised to find tears. “What—oh my. Tell me about it, sweetheart.”

Gently, because Lavernius seemed to be honestly distressed, Christina moved him over to the small couch off to the side of her office. She settled him down and then set herself next to him.

“What did Doc say in the report?” Lavernius asked, and his voice wobbled. Christina filed away the familiar term to dissect later.

“His report detailed a Sangheili-Human hybrid named Lavernius Tucker,” Christina said carefully. “It included,” and here her tone took on derisive hints, “information about feeding habits, growth—surprisingly detailed.”

Lavernius laughed, bitterly. “Most of it’s bullshit. Doc doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

Christina latched onto the connotations there. “Most?”

“Growth, feeding habits—Doc’s insane and doesn’t understand crap all about Junior,” Lavernius leaned forward to bury his face into his hands. “Granted neither do I, really. Big fucking mess.” His voice hitched.

“Junior,” Christina said carefully.

“Yeah. Junior. My kid,” Lavernius’ voice trailed off into an almost keen whine. “ _Fuck_.”

Christina swallowed down the burst of _rage_ at the thought of Lavernius sleeping with and having a child with some Sangheili. “And where is this…kid?” Christina questioned. “With their mother?”

Lavernius laughed hollowly. “Nah,” he said, and Christina noted the tinge of hysteria. “He’s dead. Fucking blown up in a pelican after Tex damn kidnapped him to ‘end the fucking war.”

Christina frowned. How could a hybrid—she huffed. “The war has been over for a month, and we’ve had a tentative truce with the Sangheili for some time before that.”

“ _Great_ ,” Lavernius hissed. “So my kid died for nothing on that fucking pelican. Just fucking _perfect_.”

Christina frowned. “And the mother?”

Lavernius leaned back and grimaced. “Mom…Junior doesn’t _have_ a mother,” he said plainly. “I…” He looked pained. “I…” His hand slipped down toward his abdomen.

“Lavernius?”

Lavernius swallowed heavily. “The asshole impregnated _me_ ,” he said weakly. “Somehow. Fuck if I know.” He rocked forward and Christina tried to fight down the thought of how insane this sounded.

“And you…chose that?”

“I chose that?” Lavernius huffed. “No, mom. I didn’t choose any of it.” He looked back at her, and Christina felt her gut churn. She hoped the next words out of his mouth wouldn’t be what she thought they would. “I was _raped_ and not even given a damned choice!”

Christina clenched her fists and closed her eyes. She really hoped that wouldn’t be the words out of Lavernius’ mouth. She really hoped—after a second of forced calming breaths and the recited reminder that they had a _truce_ now, she couldn’t go and hunt down the nearest Sangheili ships and blow them sky high. That would be improper and would get her nothing but put in front of a trial for crimes. Not to mention they might just end back up at war with the Sangheili all over again and no one wanted that; not now with the tentative truce and the believed end of the Covenant.

“We’ll…talk about this later,” Christina said. “For now let’s—let’s just get you settled in, sweetheart. We have a couple of months before we reach Earth.”

* * *

 

Later, Tucker thankfully realized, would not come soon. His mom seemed rather resolved to get Tucker to relax and catch up on the news of the galaxy away from the backwards little planet he’d been stationed to. While _everyone_ knew how Master Chief blew up a halo ring with all of the aliens upon it, almost no one in their sector of space that worked for Project Freelancer had heard about the mess that happened on Earth.

After Tucker learned what he could from his mom and the network, he spent most of his time in relaxation. With a single-minded focus to forget what happened recently and just _bask_ in his mom’s presence, Tucker caught up on everything that involved his family. His two older sister’s business pursuits together—the fact that Mariah had a new boyfriend, or that Angelique found yet another strange creature to adopt as a pet—and even very briefly touched upon _Lascivious Aromatics_ and his father’s recent dealings.

“ _Please_ don’t tell me he knows about Junior,” Tucker groaned as he flipped through business reports that he’d _rather not be reading_.

“Hm, well not _Junior_ exactly,” Christina mused tiredly over a cup of tea. When Tucker placed the reports over his face in an attempt to hide his own embarrassment she twittered in amusement back. “Honestly Lavernius he had to be told _something_. HIGHCOM began investigating Marius’ dealings. No one had a damned clue what was going on, and you know your father.”

“Anyone sticking their nose into the damned company raises all sorts of red flags,” Tucker drowned. “Ugh. _Fuckberries_.”

“Language.” Christina slapped him against the thigh and Tucker jolted with a yelp.

“ _Mom!_ ”

Christina laughed, and for a while Tucker could forget the mess of shit he’d found himself in. Honestly his anger at Church seemed more and more well-founded since this bullhockey could be laid solely at his feet. His and goddamn Project Freelancer. Of course not everything remained relaxing—Tucker knew eventually he’d have to face the music about—about Junior and tell his mom everything. She needled the story out of him in bits and pieces, thankfully; allowed him respite between recollections. Tucker saw the way she marked little notes out of the corner of his eye while he hollowly recited what happened—interspersed with brief moments of levity because no mother liked to see their child look so haunted.

“This…blade?” Christina frowned. “That was the start of it?”

Tucker waved his hand. “Well, yeah, I guess. I mean Tex seemed damn interested in it, and why wouldn’t she? It was a goddamn fucking _plasma sword!_ How cool is that?!”

“Yes,” Christina murmured. “We’ve…seen something like it. Among the Elites.”

Tucker sat up in surprise. “What, really? Everything I heard made it out to be something _rare_. Like even that—even the damned alien acted like it was some sort of holy relic or something.”

“Like Forerunner technology?” Christina frowned. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Tucker shrugged. “I dunno, mom. All I know is I’m the only one that can wield the damn thing. Tex tried, and so did Caboose—asshole didn’t think I noticed. And so did the—so did the alien. Wouldn’t activate for them.”

Christina leaned back. “Odd. Not of the plasma swords we’ve encountered had such a limitation. Perhaps it was unique then. What did the…sangheili say it was meant to do?”

Tucker looked down at his hands. “I—some sort of key? Honestly it was vague, and I’m…not sure how much I trust the source, anyway.” Christina reached out a hand.

“Take your time, Lavernius.”

Tucker breathed out heavily and shook his head. “Nah, it’s not—it’s not tough to say mom. More just…completely crazy.” He laughed. “But shit, what wasn’t crazy about that fucking assignment anyway?” Christina squeezed his thigh. “Alright, alright. So Tex somehow created a bomb with an AI attached, see?”

“Wait, _what?_ ” Christina sat stiff. “How in the—”

Tucker turned to face her and gave her a wry sort of grin. “Oh that’s not the _half_ of it.” With that he launched happily into the Freelancer bullshit that he’d been dragged into once Tex arrived. Anything to take his mind off of—off of Junior and the whole journey and—and _that_.

Tucker ignored the way his lower back throbbed.

_(it wasn’t there)_

_(it **wasn’t** there)_


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mariah and Angelique are not amused with Tucker's shit. Junior is a handful for anyone involved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _So much research went into this chapter. Appreciate it, you fucks._

“This is _completely_ insane,” Mariah huffed, hands on her hips as she stared at the half-wrecked aft-portion of a pelican. “You do realize that? _Nutso_ , _coocoo for coco puffs, batshit crazy_ —”

“Papa always said don’t stick your dick in crazy,” Angelique mused as she stared at her nails. Around them Mariah’s men rummaged through the wreckage with a single minded focus.

“Mhm-hmm-mmm-mm,” Mariah hummed faintly and narrowed her eyes. “Can you believe it though, really?”

Angelique shrugged her shoulders. “It’s Vern, dear. You know what he’s like.”

Mariah groaned and flopped against the crate of supplies they’d brought on this excursion. “I swear I’m gonna rip him a new one once we finally see each other again.”

“You can yell at him all you like when we’ve finished up here. Did Papa say anything else aside from these wreckage sites?” Angelique glanced over to Mariah who pursed pale blue painted lips.

“Let’s see…Vern was in trouble, _again_ ,” Mariah ticked off, gaze distant. “Some bullshit with the nutso faction he started to work with, _again._ ”

“This is not like the incident in high school,” Angelique disagreed.

“He’d been accused of having a child, _again_ ,” Mariah continued.

“ _That_ is like the incident in high school,” Angelique amended. “And middle school. And throughout basic training. And…most of his life, actually.” Angelique sighed, amused more than anything, a fond smile on her lips.

“This time he actually _has_ a kid, though,” Mariah frowned. “Wonder if the kid’ll be as easy to find as Vern was?”

Angelique huffed a laugh. “Say something papa always says and I’m _sure_ we’ll be able to tell.”

“I _hope_ so because this is just _bullshit_ ,” Mariah grumbled and rolled back to her feet. “Oi! Freelancer dick!”

Hands bound tightly behind his back, helmet, and weapons firmly out of reach, ‘Freelancer dick’ Butch Flowers raised his head and gave a lazy smile toward the two women. He didn’t say anything; the first few moments he tried to lay on the charm had landed him firmly with a punch to the solar plexus and a taser in his face. He could still faintly taste copper, and the ache in his ribs from the crash left much to be desired. Plus, if he looked at his own legs he could tell at least one of them was broken and not in a good way.

“Run your shitty story by me again,” Mariah huffed. She kept out of arms reach from the bastard—didn’t trust his nice guy smile for a minute; she once dated a freak like that and was more than glad she dumped his ass before all of the jerk’s creepy fetishes came into play.

“Well I’d be pleased as punch to do so,” Butch said, “if you could please also do me the honor of using my name? As much as I feel Dick would be a wonderful name to have, it is sadly not mine.”

Mariah crossed her arms. “Your Freelancer dick until I say anything different. Just answer the fucking question!”

Butch frowned, then sighed. “Well I would very much enjoy reuniting father and son. This kidnapping business is just far too messy, all things considered, and I always did find Private Tucker so very amusing.”

“I _don’t_ want to hear your creepy bullshit about Vern,” Mariah ground out.

“But he was such a wonderful addition to the team!” Butch said earnestly. “I am never more pleased than when I chose Private Tucker out of the myriad of potential recruits—ah…” Butch caught the rest of his words before he said them when Mariah took a step forward and he felt a knife slip against his throat. He’d _forgotten_ about her boyfriend. “Alright, alright.” Butch wiggled his fingers with a smile. “Although I would greatly love a shower once all this is done.”

“Just. Talk,” Mariah spat.

“Very well,” Butch murmured. Dark eyes glanced over his shoulder to the boyfriend who stared down at him, face covered in his helmet—and that dark visor left shivers down Butch’s spine. _She had to be dating **this guy**._ “Very well.”

* * *

 

“Are you sure?” Christina asked quietly as she glanced over toward where Lavernius sat, lips pressed into a frown as he went over expense reports for _Lascivious Aromatics_.

“That’s what Mariah told me,” Marius sighed.

Christina pursed her lips. “Lavernius claimed he was _dead_ , toward the end mess,” she said slowly and stared down at the face of Marius; her gaze tracked over toward the report he’d sent her—still thoughtful, even after all these years. “Is this…even accurate?”

Marius scrubbed a hand through his dreads and looked off to the side. “I don’t know, Christy, I just…don’t know.” He looked tired, tired enough that Christina didn’t bother correcting the familiar nickname. As much as she detested being called Christy there were more important things than fighting with Marius right now.

“Marius, tell me the truth,” Christina said, and she lowered her voice even more as she narrowed her eyes at him. “In your side business have you _ever_ heard of technology that could do this?”

Marius didn’t speak for a moment. His face grew pinched and he tapped a finger against the rim of the glass as he sucked in air through his teeth. Christina counted them. _One. Two. Three. Four. Five…_ Marius shook his head in the universal sign for no. Christina frowned. _That’s a yes._ “How is he?” Marius questioned.

“As well as can be expected,” Christina sighed, and didn’t press further. She got her answer anyway. “Dealing, not dealing…I’m still trying to figure out how to approach him about seeing someone.”

“I’m not interested in a shrink, mom!” Lavernius said.

“And _now_ he notices we’ve been talking,” Christina added, dryly.

“I heard.”

Lavernius swung to his feet and set the papers aside as he stormed over to Christina’s desk and slapped his palms onto the surface. He spared a glance toward the video screen with Marius’ face and a simple, “Hi, dad,” before he turned back toward Christina. “I’m _serious_ mom. I’m _fine._ I don’t need someone rooting around in my head!”

“Sweetheart,” Christina started, and then stopped for a second when Lavernius gave her this narrowed eyed glare.

Marius spoke up in the pause, blasting past where Christina hesitated. She knew she doted on her son a little too much, sometimes, but he was the last good thing to come out of their marriage—and so long after Angelique and Mariah were born, too—that Christina couldn’t quite help it.

“Your mother means well, Lavernius,” Marius said calmly. He ignored the way Lavernius pulled a face at being addressed so—and it always came to _him_ when he used the boy’s name and not his mother—and continued, “same as when your sisters needed help. You remember, right?”

Lavernius scowled. “I swear if I ever find that asshole I’m going to shove my plasma sword right up his—”

“The sentiment is mutual,” Christina interrupted, and Lavernius looked back toward her, face guarded, “but…Marius is right. This might not be the same as what Mariah and Angelique went through, but that doesn’t mean you don’t need to talk to _someone_ , Lavernius.”

“I’m _fine,_ ” Lavernius said, and he clenched his hands into fists. “I’m serious, mom. I don’t want to talk to anyone else about this. It’s bad enough—I’m _fine_.” Christina reached out a hand to grasp at the clenched fist, but she didn’t press. Instead she squeezed it, if only to let Lavernius know she heard him. The situation really wasn’t that comparable—not completely—and Christina doubted Lavernius really remembered much about what happened with Angelique and Mariah in any sense of detail. He’d been rather young, all things considered.

After a second Lavernius pulled his hands away and slouched back. “Anyway, what were the two of you whispering about when you thought I didn’t notice?” Lavernius questioned.

“Your father and I were just—” Christina started, but Marius interrupted her.

“Your sisters reported back, finally,” Marius continued blithely. “They found part of the wreckage site of the Pelican and evidence that Junior might be alive.”

Lavernius seemed to freeze. He looked to Christina, and then down at the video screen, face just a bit pale.

“You sent them to search for Junior?” he asked, voice high and faint.

“Obviously so,” Marius huffed. “He is your heir, isn’t he?”

“I—he’s alive?”

“If what they’ve sent is accurate, then yes,” Marius agreed. “Shall I forward it to—”

Christina slapped her palms against the table and cut Marius off before he could say anything else with a sharp, “Marius, enough!” A second later she muted the video, moved around her desk, and gathered Lavernius up into his arms. “Sweetheart, it’s going to be okay.”

“He’s—but the ship, it—” Lavernius sounded like he couldn’t quite believe it. He choked for a second, at a loss, and looked up at Christina with wide, brown eyes. “How—what did they—”

Christina sighed. She glanced to Marius to see him frowning back up at her, and with a flick of her finger she ended the video call. A second later she led Lavernius back toward the couch and settled down next to him.

“They found a survivor,” Christina said carefully. “Mariah and Angelique; a Freelancer.”

“Tex?” Lavernius mumbled, shocked.

“Ah, no,” Christina frowned. “Not—Agent Texas it was, right?” at Lavernius’ nod Christina continued. “Right, not her. A man.”

Lavernius frowned. “But…the only other Freelancer we met was Wyoming and I _killed_ him.”

Christina arched an eyebrow and filed that away in surprise before she shook her head. “Well I don’t know what his Freelancer designation was; he’s refused to give that up and I haven’t looked through the UNSC’s records just yet but they did get a name. A…Butch Flowers.”

Christina didn’t realize what an impact Butch Flowers would have on Lavernius until he jerked his hands out of her grip and stared at her wide eyed and open mouthed. She knew that Lavernius had _thought_ the man his commanding officer, and she’d already heard how he’d supposedly died from an aspirin overdose by his friend Church, but this response shocked her.

“He’s— _alive?_ ” Lavernius squeaked. “But—” For a moment Lavernius floundered, and then he frowned. “Wait—did dad say— _Mariah and Angelique!?_ Oh fuck and they are with—” a second longer and Lavernius groaned and buried his head into his hands. He dug his fingers into his scalp, then scrambled them with a frustrated growl.

“Lavernius—” Christina started, then stopped when Lavernius raised his head to stare at her. She was surprised at the depth of _anger_ in his eyes—and the spark of— _something_ —

_(did his eyes—)_

“Mom, tell me _everything_ ,” Lavernius demanded, voice low and almost into an inhuman growl.

_(did his eyes just—)_

Christina sighed. She got to her feet and pulled up the files Marius sent her. A second later she grabbed a tablet and tapped it to the desk to initiate the transfer of files, and then took the tablet over to Lavernius.

“Everything is on here, sweetheart,” Christina said tiredly. Lavernius snatched the tablet out of her grip and quickly began to thumb through it. She watched him. “You know I just—”

“I know, mom,” Lavernius said distractedly. “I love you too.”

Christina sighed again and headed back toward her desk. She had paperwork she needed to do, and more information she needed to add to her report to HIGHCOM. At this rate Dr. Church could kiss his career goodbye; there was no way HIGHCOM would let Project Freelancer continue as it was. For a moment Christina spared a thought to how Dr. Church could let the gift the UNSC granted him fester so much, before she pushed it entirely out of mind. It didn’t matter, in the end. Not anymore.

* * *

 

_“I want papa.”_

Khivu ‘Nrazamai huffed and glanced over to the little hybrid in frustration. The child seemed stunted and his ‘crèche’ mates—none of which survived the crash—had stared at the child in a mixture of awe and concern. Khivu held no such awe for the child, supposedly prophesized or not. Unlike the others Khivu had not been born into the Golden-Blood of Sangheilios, and as such didn’t hold the same candle to the religious murmurings the rest of his ‘crèche’ spouted. Khivu had been born and raised into the Covenant and only later—far, far later—fell into the grip of the Golden-Blood of Sangheilios.

The Prophets would name them heretics, and a part of Khivu wondered if they would be right. These days it didn’t matter much of anything with the heretical nature of the Prophet’s being revealed to those of the Covenant anyway. Still Khivu wondered what this strange mixed child could even provide to Sangheilios as a whole, or even to these heretical fanatics. They spoke of a legendary blade, some strange Key that predated the Forerunners that the Covenant worshipped. That very blade, what the Sangheili fashioned their plasma swords after, rested against Khivu’s thigh. He didn’t dare try to activate it.

 _“I want papa!”_ the child cried, and struggled in Khivu’s grip. He huffed again.

 _“Be quiet,”_ Khivu chided sharply and the child whined. It didn’t even have a proper _name_ , for all it fussed and cried for its human progenitor. It didn’t even _look_ right either. What use were only two mandibles, or a single thumb? For that matter why did it need so many fingers? Khivu didn’t understand how humans could function with so many additional digits—didn’t they get in the way of things?—and he wondered how this child could function with so many. At least its feet looked right. Khivu would’ve worried about it walking and he didn’t want to contemplate how the rest of the Golden-Blood of Sangheilios would take the deformities.

The ‘famed’ Thala ‘Darsam, the other half of the childs genetics, was already weird enough and _worshipped_ enough among these heretics. Khivu didn’t want to think of how her child would be received, let alone of how a deformed hybrid creature such as it would even _function._ Did it eat meat? Did humans actually eat prey? Did humans even _eat?_

 _“I. Want. Papa!”_ it fussed and Khivu growled and tilted his head back.

 _Forerunner’s give him patience_. Khivu never had to deal with a child, and up until now he’d never quite been thankful for that. It wiggled and grabbed at the air and cried—Khiva ground his mandibles together and slung it under one arm with a frustrated grumble.

 _“Calm,”_ he ground out, and begged for patience again. Where were the lessons of his _arum_ when he needed them now?

 _“PAPA!”_ it shrieked.

Khivu forced himself not to slam his hands around his tympanic membrane to shield them from the noise. For what felt like _days_ he’d had to deal with the fussing, the refusal to eat, the _fussing_ , and his own injuries from the hurried evacuation of the human craft as it went up into flames. Out of everything the fussing bothered him the most. Khivu wondered what it was about the child’s no-named human progenitor that fascinated it so.

Perhaps it was a failing of its education? Obviously Thala ‘Darsam hadn’t bothered to remain around teach it anything. In fact hadn’t they lost all communication with her after she informed him of the successful impregnation of the blade’s Chosen? Khivu frowned. He distinctly remembered the concern over her lack of communication—it was why he and his ‘crèche’ had been sent out to find the child and, hopefully, Thala herself. They succeeded in one of the objectives at least, although the second was to be seen.

Actually, now that Khivu thought on it, how long _had_ the human carried the child? Perhaps that was why it appeared so stunted. Khivu doubted the human could’ve carried it to term—they were such small creatures. Any Sangheili would’ve ripped the thing the shreds. It _should_ be dead, actually, and so should logically the child. Khivu glanced down at his arm where he’d slung the little beast only to blink in surprise.

 _“Blast,”_ Khivu slumped down. It escaped. _Again_. Couldn’t the little bastard just stay still and quiet and _right in his arms for five minutes?!_ Now he’d have to hunt the wily thing all over again. At this rate they’d never get off this second rate backwater planet. If it weren’t for the damned blade Khivu doubted any self-respecting Sangheili—and that included the Golden-Blood of Sangheilios, much to his chagrin—would ever step foot onto the planet.

With a sigh Khivu began to arduous task of tracking the little ‘Darsam heir down. Why did the hybrid have to be such a pain to deal with? It must be the human genetics. Blasted blade taking a human Chosen. Who would’ve thought that would happen? Granted they seemed to practically _infest_ the galaxy so was it really that surprising? They’d lasted this long against the Covenant after all. They were like an immortal infestation of wood-eaters. _Disgusting._ Khivu prayed for patience again and got to work.

 


End file.
